


rocks in the river

by foxika (kylonaberrie)



Series: foxy asides [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Trans Kylo Ren, im a stupid kinnie with simple needs don't @ me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylonaberrie/pseuds/foxika
Summary: You're taught a few things about soulmates, growing up.How to deal with a psychic, persistent, time-travelling one with no sense of boundaries is not one of them.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: foxy asides [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036353
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> um. yeah this is exactly what it says on the tin
> 
> warnings:
> 
> \- offscreen/referenced rape  
> \- self harm  
> \- all the shit w the clones  
> \- all the shit w kylo  
> \- canon typical abuse in other words  
> \- kylo being shit at boundaries

You’re taught a few things, about soulmates, growing up: the technical parts, about how every living being shares a life force with another; what the shifting marks on your skin mean, that they show where your other half has been injured; the potentiality for a psychic bond to form; the statistics, of soulmates frequently but not always appearing close enough in time and space to meet; the importance of informing your trainer or overseer if you discover your soulmate among your brothers; the potential uses of a psychic bond.

The thing the  _ kaminiise _ don’t touch on is what it means, to be someone’s soulmate, and like everything else the  _ kaminiise _ don’t tell you, your brothers fill in the blanks for themselves. When you were young countless among you would claim their friends were their soulmates, dreaming of being  _ special, _ of having a bond that made them more useful than all the rest, of having a type of relationship loving couldn’t get you. You would tell stories about soulmates, imagining them, as you imagined everyone back then, much like yourselves, with occasional exotic details:  _ he has blue eyes. He has freckles. He has blond hair. _

You joined in as much as everyone else at that age, for the sociality of it if nothing else; the idea didn’t entrance you and hasn’t since. Sure, you liked to admire your soulmarks - skinned knees, scrapes, bruises in muted, dark multicolours. Yours blossomed and faded with more frequency than anyone else’s around you. That happens sometimes; a temporal effect, or a fast-healing species. Later, Kote would gather that that meant your soulmate wasn’t a  _ vod, _ something that had never occurred to you as a young child, and your soulmarks were a topic of some curiosity in your command track squad as they changed to black sliding down your temple like blood from a cut, blood red lines on your arms and thighs that would refresh themselves for weeks on end, occasional hot pink bursts you would see when undressing to shower.

You liked them, yeah, but you didn’t really concern yourself with the person on the other end so much as how they made you look, how your face would stand out painted almost completely black some days save for the pink half-moons of fingernails digging in around your mouth. A lot of people got marks on their faces, some even permanently, but yours was  _ different. _ You and your batchmates would entertain yourselves theorising about what caused each mark, and yours was always the big mystery - how could someone receive so much damage to their head, so frequently, with so much shifting? Some days even your eyes would black out. And as much as it was a mystery, it was something that was yours without needing an answer, something that made you stand out so completely, something that made you an individual.

After being deployed you didn’t have thought to spare for it, coping with this new, hellish position you found yourself in, and your soulmarks were mainly something to have to explain to concerned and curious natborns, why even your sclera and irises were black, or why you looked like you had blood pouring from your mouth, or the bright white line bisecting your face down the middle. “Soulmarks” never was enough to sate them-- what sort of injuries was your soulmate sustaining? Why did your eyes flash pink and red and gold? Why the finger-width gouges dug into your face, that would disappear not hours later?

You got used to never taking off your helmet outside the barracks. The shinies, at least, when you started getting shinies, would accept the short explanation with wonder. It’s always more comfortable in the safety of a space just for  _ vode, _ anyway, as things got worse and worse. You’d wish your soulmate was one of your own if you gave a shit, but you don’t. They’re just an inconvenience, like every other fucking natborn in your life.

The thoughts you spare sometimes are still about yourself. How does that show up on their body, the internal damage, the violations? Does it at all? What colour is your suffering, on their skin?

You don’t let those kinds of thoughts linger. You don’t let any thoughts linger these days.

None of your men know their soulmates. They’re not going to spend the ones that do on you, not when they have such application on a battlefield. Thorn shares with you at one point that they rarely get marks at all anymore, occasional orchid-purple cuts to show them their soulmate is still alive, so reduced from the pastel bumps and scraped that peppered them as a child. Stone sometimes shows up with imitation black eyes, unpuffed but all the right colours, a medley of purple and black and red, lines for split lips, blossoming bruises along his jawline. Tailor wears bruises on her face too most days, in earthy greys. Occasionally you see other face injuries on other troopers, a whole rainbow of colours. Yours still draws the most curiosity, sometimes night-black for weeks on end.

It happens the first time when you’re going to sleep: the ghost sensation of a body that isn’t your own, of a room that isn’t your cramped quarters. You’re awake again in an instant, your eyes popping open to see the same thing they always do, the blank white wall mere feet from your face, lights left on.

But that happened. You didn’t imagine it.

‘Hello?’ you call out, sitting up as you prepare to deal with whatever new bullshit instead of get a couple hours of sleep.The room flickers again, long enough for you to see this time. Black walls, black floors, lights dimmed, no windows and the telltale hum of a spaceship. You’re taller, wider, your sleepclothes exposing pale, muscled arms, scattered with cuts and scars and electrical burns you wear in strawberry-pink, and Corrie-red bruises of varying vividness right where you’re purpling from being slammed into a wall a couple days ago.

Well fuck.

The scene keeps flickering in and out, and you’re them and you’re yourself and the room is white or black and then they’re sitting across from you instead, thick inky hair chopped roughly short, flickering in and out between you being them and you sitting in their room instead.

‘Settle down,’ you tell them, not sure if they have any control over this either, maybe just telling the universe or your soul bond or whatever the fuck. It works, though, and you’re sort of in two places at once, your covers turning to their covers, but at least you can see them more clearly: a big rough pockmarked face, big brown eyes, too dull to be a  _ vod’s, _ with big heavy lashes, a big nose with a red scratch across it, right in the same place as your scar. They’re human, or at least look it. You don’t see any sign of what’s making your head black out. Maybe it’s internal.

The setting resolves around you too as you look at each other, so you’re sitting in their room, on their massive bed, with real cloth sheets instead of plastic. Their eyes grow brighter, wider as they look at you, alight with hope in the darkened room.

It makes you a little uncomfortable, being looked at like that by a natborn, but it’s not salacious, or malicious. Just awe and wonder and realisation.

They speak first. ‘You’re my soulmate.’

They have a deep voice, not like your own, not like your brothers’, too deep, dragging like a body over gravel. But their tone is pure wonder and excitement as well. It briefly occurs to you to liken them to your brothers, growing up-- cadets so excited at the potentiality of being chosen by the universe in such a fashion, at the idea of something that’s theirs, theirs alone and theirs specifically.

They’re an adult, though, assuming they’re a natborn human. Their hands are held to their chest in excitement like the shinies do.

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘I think I am.’

A lopsided grin spreads across their face. You’re not sure what you’re feeling, really. This is just one more thing you have to deal with, but hopefully it won’t be much of an issue. Not that hope has ever done you any favours. The grin fades slightly as they look you up and down, though the wonder doesn’t. You have a closer look at them, too: the electrical burns; the thick, oily, almost wavy black hair, going brown at the roots; the build like yours but scaled up by what must be half a foot; the fineness of the fabric of their pajamas, a black spaghetti-strap top and loose black pants, contrasting with the shittiness of their haircut, thick locks falling roughly around oversized ears.

‘I’m so--’ they start, voice wavering. ‘I’m so sorry.’

That takes you by surprise. ‘For what?’

They laugh, deep and rusty. ‘I’ve worn your pain, soulmate. I’ve worn the way people have used you.’

Your stomach flips over at the reminder, at the bruises on your hips that must be on theirs, at the healing cut on both your lips. You’re caught in a sudden panic, the kind you haven’t experienced in years, a need to hide, to stop being  _ seen _ like this. What right of theirs is it to know? If this isn’t private, isn’t yours and your assaulters’ alone, what do you have left?

They reach for you and you jerk back on instinct, hitting the back wall of your bunk, and you’re back in your quarters now, with them sitting at the foot of your bed. They don’t touch you, at least, don’t reach further for you. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ they say, voice  _ heavy _ like a weighted blanket, with a warm, sweaty grip around the words that you’ve come to associate with the worst moments of your life. ‘I’ve been trying so hard to find you. I can look after you now. We can be together. It’s going to be okay.’

Every problem with that leaps to your mind at once-- you cannot and in fact will not be together with this random natborn, fear gripping you in cold waves all over again, you don’t need looking after, you don’t know what’s happening here but you have a job to do and you do not need this on top of everything else-- but you’re too panicked to figure out which to put to words first, and anyway, they’re talking again as they lower their hand. ‘Don’t worry. I can feel how scared you are. I’m not going to hurt you.’

This isn’t exactly comforting, but does give you the moment you need to regain control of your faculties. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, snapping on your professional voice. ‘But I’m not in a position where I can drop everything and be with someone. I have a sworn duty and a job to do.’

‘You needn’t leave it,’ they press, eyes earnest and intent. ‘I can come to you. I can protect you.’

You consider it for a fraction of a second, but no. You’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself; there’s just too many reasons why you aren’t allowed to. ‘No,’ you tell them firmly. ‘You don’t know who I am and you don’t know what’s going on with me. I don’t know what’s going on here, I don’t know you, and I don’t know enough to trust you.’

They look like you slapped them in the face. Fucking entitled natborns. They recover pretty quickly though, that same look back on their face that tells you they haven’t given up. ‘Then we’ll just have to get to know each other.’

You’re not going to get out of this, are you. ‘Fine,’ you say, resigned to your fate, like you’re so used to resigning yourself to so many others. ‘But I need to sleep, so clear out for now, okay? It is you that’s doing this?’

‘It is,’ they say serenely. ‘I’ll come back later.’

And in an instant they disappear.

You groan and shift back down to be lying, settle the covers back up over you. This is  _ not _ what you need right now or ever, you have no idea when you’re going to fit in time to talk to them in between every other fucking thing you have to do. Of course your soulmate had to be a stubborn, privileged, psychic asshole.

You shove away the thoughts of what else they are, and what else they know, even as it sends a shiver down your body. There’s nothing to be done.

Just deal with it, Fox, you tell yourself like you always tell yourself. Just deal with it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ship name for this is tiddy committee

They come back, as promised, later. You’re shaving and jump and cut yourself when they appear in the mirror behind you, the same cut appearing in red on their face. ‘Fuck.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ They laugh softly as they say it, not sounding sorry at all. You roll your eyes and keep shaving. They touch the new red line on their cheek in wonder. It’d be cute if they were a shiny instead of a weird hallucination.

‘What do you want?’ you ask, getting down to business.

‘You said I could come see you again.’

You did, didn’t you. ‘Well, I’m here.’

‘You’re funny.’ They smile, brush some hair out of their face. It immediately falls back to where it was. ‘You’re very grouchy.’

‘Am I now.’ You rinse your face, wash and stick a patch on the cut.  _ ‘Don’t _ watch me in the sonic.’

‘I won’t.’

You strip off your blacks in there instead of in front of them. As you set about washing your eyes fall again on the electrical burns mimicked in vivid pink across your chest and down your shoulders. On the red and black lines crisscrossing your arms and thighs. Your face isn’t all black today, skin returned to its normal warm brown, which always makes it easier to shave, your hair being black and all. Instead it’s just red crawling down from your hairline, not even making it very far down your forehead.

You sigh. They’ve always been this badly hurt, ever since you stopped being a kid-kid and the colours on your body changed to pink and red and black instead of deep-dark blue and green and burnt orange. Their injuries have always outnumbered your own, and last night they offered to  _ protect you. _

It still doesn’t have a snowflake’s chance in your ass of working out, but maybe you can give them a little sympathy and the whole debacle will run a lot smoother. You can deal with this just like you deal with everything else. You wash and leave the shower. You still have to be naked in front of them if you don’t want to put your dirty blacks back on, but life’s like that.

Their eyes rake across you intently in a way that makes you very uncomfortable when you step out, still not salacious, but curious in a way that reminds you of the  _ kaminiise. _ You walk past them, electing not to acknowledge them until you have your blacks on.

They’re talking anyway. ‘I’m Kylo, anyways. She/her.’

Small blessings, at least; you never know if you’re supposed to ask natborns for their pronouns or what. You still don’t look at her, focusing instead on turning your shirt rightside out. ‘Fox. He/him.’

‘Fox,’ she says, trying it out, rolling it carefully on her tongue. You go to fetch your dirty blacks from the bathroom. She follows you, stubborn ghost that she is. ‘Where are we, Fox?’

‘Coruscant.’

She hums. ‘Where on Coruscant?’

God, this is going to get messy, isn’t it. You’ll just have to shoo her away if anything actually classified comes up, and not talk until she does. You can’t feel any signs of a real telepathic bond forming, yet, so at least your thoughts are still safe.

Fuck. This sucks. ‘West Coruscant Guard barracks in the Senate Building.’

Her face lights up in wonder as you load your washing droid. ‘The  _ Senate Building?’ _

You cut her a glance, apprehensive. ‘Yes.’

‘The Senate Building. On Coruscant.’

‘Yes.’

‘What year is it?’

‘979.’ You continue looking hard at her, racking up the implications.

‘Is that Ruusaan?’

‘Yes.’ Oh fuck.

She beams. ‘You’re from the  _ clone wars? _ ’ She’s so fucking delighted about it. That makes one of you. Her face drops to realisation. ‘You’re a clone.’

‘Yes. I am.’ You feel the familiar ripple of annoyance, bracing yourself resignedly for whatever reaction.

She doesn’t really react, just barrels forwards. ‘We’re one year into the war then?’

‘One and a half, give or take. How far in the future are you from?’

‘Ah--’ she pauses, thinking. ‘I’d be from 1029 Ruusaan, if we still used that.’

‘We change year systems in the next fifty years.’ Something processes. ‘Are you telling me there isn’t a senate at that point either?’

‘Well, not the same one. Not of the Republic, no.’

You wish you hadn’t asked that. Fuck. ‘Well I’m legally bound to serve the Republic, so please don’t tell me anything I’ll have to act upon.’ You don’t want to have to prevent the downfall of the Republic. Hands off, let it go down.

You know for a fact you’re not the only person with a temporally displaced soulmate, and for a moment wonder how many decisions were made based on things like this, how many things permanently changed, and does that create a paradox? Most people don’t meet out-of-time soulmates, but what about the ones that do? How much potential do you have to fuck up?

‘Okay.’

She blinks innocently at you in a way you don’t really trust. You give her a look.

‘You told me not to,’ she insists.

‘Am I going to regret telling you not to?’

‘Yes.’

Well, great. Fucking peachy. You put your armour on. ‘I’ll think about it. I have to work now.’

‘I’ll come with.’

‘No.’ You’re not sure if other people will be able to see her, but that’s a can of worms you sure don’t need to open. 

‘I’ll only watch you.’

You give her another look. ‘Being stared at isn’t exactly conducive to me getting work done, and I don’t have time for anything else.’

She laughs softly, again trying fruitlessly to push her hair out of her face. She’s trying to tuck it behind her ear, but it’s not long enough, and doesn’t stay there. ‘But the security cameras. You’re already being watched, Fox.’

‘Nobody’s sitting in the security office staring at me all day, that’s pathetic.’ At least you hope to fuck nobody is. ‘They’re just a precaution. Kindly fuck off, you can come back later.’

She disappears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dont know whether this should be m or t rated.... i dont know anythiong except drink juice and love clone

You get another very, very long day of work under your belt, expecting Kylo to pop up and harass you, but she doesn’t, and you’re able to do what can be done and collapse into bed to get what sleep you can.

You dream of her. You dream you are her. She’s alone in a fresher, sitting on the floor, carefully rubbing bacta into fresh burns while she fights to keep her eyes open. The lights are turned down low and they’re still too bright, searing at her eyes while a migraine tries to beat open the walls of her skull. She gives up and lets her eyes slip closed, treating her wounds by touch alone, now struggling to stay awake.

Then she pauses. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ It comes out of the mouth that is both yours and hers.

‘You seem to have no problem with popping up on my end. I’m asleep, and you’re the one in charge of this connection anyway,’ the same mouth says in a different tone, not dripping and lingering like her voice normally does. Though aware of your state you feel perfectly lucid in the scene. Hopefully it won’t do too much to ruin your precious sleep.

‘I’m not doing this.’

Fuck. Does that mean your psychic connection is forming? You think at her, can you hear me, say something. But she doesn’t.

It’s something. ‘How were you doing it before, anyway?’

‘The force,’ she answers calmly, flickering her eyes open again to rub more bacta in. Her hands are large, and themselves scarred and scratched. There’s damage done to her nails, too, entire halves of them cracked off and bloody.

‘Are you a Jedi, then? You’re getting blood in your bacta.’

She stops what she’s doing to glare at nothing. ‘I’m not a  _ Jedi.’ _

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

‘What are you?’ you ask, dreading the answer.

Her impatience drains away as she pauses. ‘I’m not your enemy.’

‘You’re a Sith.’

‘I’m not a Sith. Fuck, I just told you I wasn’t a Sith.’

‘You prefaced it like you were going to say you were a Sith.’

‘I’m not a Sith! Sith is a religion and I’m not a practitioner. I’m a dual force user.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I am capable of wielding the dark and light sides of the force simultaneously. But I’m not aligned with either the Sith or the Jedi.’

You don’t know jack shit about force users, but you are somewhat less alarmed than you were half a minute ago. ‘I’m not sure I should be letting you into the Senate building.’

Her breath catches. ‘It’s the past. It’s already happened.’

‘I don’t know how this works, Kylo, and I don’t have anyone’s word to take for it but yours. If I lose my position for being a threat to security it’s not only my neck on the line. I’m responsible for a lot of people.’

‘You don’t care about the Republic falling,’ she says, softly, awed.

You pause. It’s true, but you don’t know who’ll hear you say it.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, this voracious little intent, even through the headache you’re sharing. ‘I understand.’

You don’t know what to do with that. You don’t know what to do with any of this. The thought that maybe her words are coming out of your mouth as well, that this isn’t a one-way situation, strikes you. ‘I care about the Republic. It’s my duty to,’ you say firmly, not aimed at her but at whoever might be listening.

‘Yes,’ she agrees serenely. You think about her pointing out the security cameras to you. Then you think about her.

‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’ you ask.

She’s quiet for a few moments, hands stilled from applying bloody bacta to her other arm. ‘You can’t be.’

Once again she reminds you of a kid, distracting clumsily from the topic at hand. ‘Why not?’

‘I can’t keep seeing you,’ she says in a rush, words tumbling over each other.

If you were the smart person you like to pretend to be, you would be relieved. You would get on with the thousand other issues clawing at your door.

But something’s not right here. Not with how she was acting before.

Fuck.

‘Why not?’ you persist, tone firm and gentle like you really are talking to a kid, to one of the scared shinies, strange in Kylo’s voice.

She takes a steadying breath. ‘My master doesn’t approve.’ She’s still speaking too quickly, especially for her.

A familiar sense of heavy dread is settling in your stomach. Maybe hers, if you’re her right now, but-- whatever. Not the important part. ‘Your master?’

‘Yes.’ It’s a curt yes this time, tone still clipped. ‘And I can’t see you anymore. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

You cut her off before she can get any more defensive. ‘They did this to you.’ It’s barely a question. ‘They’ve been doing this to you the whole time.’

She’s quiet. You know enough to know what that means.

‘Some of it I do to myself,’ she points out.

‘That’s... not better.’

She flinches, physically, in towards herself. She’s moved pretty firmly from natborn asshole to scared shiny in your mind, just with those few sentences and actions. But there’s not anything you can do for her. You’re an object who’s the only thing protecting a thousand other objects, and she lives in the future. Just because your souls are connected doesn’t make her your responsibility. You have enough of those.

You understand, though, why she wanted to protect you. It never softens the blow, but it does make it easier to stay strong.

You’re not going to ask her what the black ink bathing your face for the past several years is from, though. You’ll spare her that. And you do know what to do next.

‘If you can’t see me, you can’t see me, and that’s how it’s going to have to be. But don’t think it’s what I want. You’re growing on me.’

She stifles a small noise.

‘I know it hurts,’ you continue. ‘But I think you and I are used to pain. It’s one mystery solved, isn’t it? We know the other’s out there.’

Her control on her voice trembles to a wracked sob. ‘I just wanted-- I wanted a soulmate. I wanted my soulmate.’

‘I know. But I don’t want you to have to deal with this just to see me. I’m not worth that. Your body can only take so much. You have to let go.’

It’s a little ironic. You think she really may have grown on you. Maybe not though. No use chasing what ifs.

_ ‘No,’ _ she says, firm, loud, and slams her hand down and then yelps at the impact. ‘No, I’ll bring you to me, I’ll bring you to him, he’ll--’

‘No,’ you say, calmer, just as firm. ‘Even if you could bring me to your time somehow, he’ll kill me. You said he doesn’t approve of me, and look what he’s doing to you.’

She whimpers. You sigh, not unkindly. There’s this thing you’ve noticed about natborns, where they grow up wanting things and getting them, and then they have a hard time swallowing when they can’t have them. Your feelings on the matter are too complex to easily name so you tend not to think about them, not having time to spend on introspection. You’re not annoyed with her, not really. But a brother would understand.

‘I want you,’ she presses. ‘There’s got to be some way to fix this.’

‘I won’t have you tortured for seeing me. Don’t even consider it.’ A bead of fear you would prefer not to acknowledge forms at the thought. She’s not your responsibility.

‘I’ll convince him.’

You put on your commander voice, or as best you can manage coming from her mouth. It’s pretty good, actually. A deep bark. ‘You aren’t comprehending what I’m saying. Listen to me. This is not going to work out, no matter how much you want it to. It’s dangerous for me because of the trouble I could get in for letting an unknown force user, one powerful enough to  _ time travel, _ into a high-security level of confidence. If something happens to me, it’s going to leave all my men in the lurch. The ones stationed on different parts of Coruscant are removed enough that having a different commander wouldn’t affect them that much, but the ones stationed in the Senate Building need me. That’s not an exaggeration. And it’s dangerous for you because you are getting literally tortured for seeing me. These are not risks I am willing to take, and I do not want you taking them on my behalf. Do you understand?’

She’s quiet. ‘I get tortured for a lot of things. It’s not like I’m not used to it,’ she says eventually, voice small.

You’re caught between the frustration at her still not listening and just how fucked up that statement is. The normalcy of it. The level to which she doesn’t care what happens to her.

Fuck. It reminds you of you. ‘Can you leave?’ you’re asking before you’ve thought about it. You can’t, for the reasons you’ve already outlined. Sure, it’d be easy enough to steal a ship and go AWOL, but it’d do nothing for the family you left behind.

She pauses. ‘Don’t say that,’ she says. ‘Don’t say that, he’ll hear.’

‘I’m sorry. My mistake.’ So she doesn’t have anything keeping her, just chains that can’t be shed.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ she insists. ‘He is good, he is great-- he’s taught me so much. I’m becoming perfect. I’m becoming everything.’

You get the feeling it’s the same spirit in which you said you’re loyal to the Republic.

‘So don’t say that,’ she continues, snarling at the end.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You shouldn’t  _ be here.’ _

‘I’m not sure how to leave.’

Something you can’t name shakes you to the core, like a blow you can’t feel, like a shockwave blast, like a tidal wave. Your whole self feels swept away, like you’re a twig in rapids, like you were at the heart of that explosion, and for a moment you’re just plain scared before you get a handle on yourself.

Force users. The thought has a familiar tiredness to it that you don’t know where you got, it’s not as if you ever interact with any. You’re just so tired out by everything.

As it ends you're left in the darkness, glimpses of what's going on through a tattered sheer curtain, blowing in the rain.

You aren't usually this poetic. You blame Kylo.

You can't process much more after that, light and images and scraps of noise, and it all blurs into the dream.

When you wake up there's blood & bacta dried on your fingertips.


End file.
